


Where There's Smoke

by MalkyTop



Series: he is beauty he is grace that's a lie please save this man from himself [3]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen, Near Suffocation, but he's probably fine in the end, really bad habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-10-30 18:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10882752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalkyTop/pseuds/MalkyTop
Summary: Written for the #32daysofSanji event. Prompt: Smoke/Sink





	Where There's Smoke

Even when the world stopped shaking, Sanji could still hear the nonexistent sounds of everything falling apart around him, feel the vibration of a crumbling building live on through his beating heart, which was just pounding faster and faster the more he became aware of his current situation.

Dark. Dust settling down on his face, in his eyes. The echoes of his breath bouncing around in his head, because there was barely any room for it to go elsewhere. One of his arms pinned under his side. His body twisted so that his legs – still attached, oh shit, oh thank _god_ – were side by side. Something was on top of one of them, heavy, like an unwanted pet. Dark. Stale air. Rock all around. How the hell did he even have _room?_ Everything had fallen on top of him, on top of everybody, by all accounts of pure _physics_ he should have been just crushed by debris and okay _slow your breathing._ Stop.

Okay.

Breathe in, hold. Sanji experimentally shifted. There was enough room for him to get into a more comfortable position, if 'comfortable' could be defined as 'lying in an unmarked grave far from home.' Breathe out. His hands found their way on top of his chest (not at all like a man peacefully resting in his coffin no) and carefully started feeling out the space around him. There was no way he could extend his arms. Slabs of wall to the side, chunks jutting out unevenly. A particularly large one rested by his ear. Breathe in. There was something digging against his side. He traced his fingers around its edge. It was circular, metal, there was something shaped like an empty cup – the chandelier. Thinking about it, it had hit him when it landed. He couldn't remember how. He was probably bleeding somewhere. Might even have a head injury. He couldn't tell. Breathe out.

Fingers still tracing. Wood. A wooden beam, few inches above him. Couldn't tell how long it was. Running approximately diagonal. He didn't know. It bent towards him, holding up the weight of the floor above. Was it creaking? It was probably the thing that's on top of his leg. Wood holding up stone. That's the only thing keeping everything else from just smashing his face in, huh? He tried to brace his leg against the floor and push up. Everything groaned, shifted, dumped a pile of dust on his face. A brick fell on his stomach and bounced off. Holy shit. Hooooooly _shit._

“Hey! Anybody out there?! Luffy! Get me out! I'm _trapped,_ I can't – “

He stopped, face flushed. Shouting took effort, actual _effort,_ he was _sweating_ just from those few words, or was that because of the heat? The air was stale. Dust in his face. He held back the urge to cough and choked instead until spit ran down his chin. There was no room to wipe it off.

The bright side was, he would probably suffocate before he starved. (Don't laugh.) Or the beam could snap and let lose the delayed avalanche of rubble.

He was aware of his fingernails digging into the floor beneath him. Instantly, he directed a hand into his pocket, the other to the inside of his jacket, and he was already pulling out his items of choice before his mind caught up and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing.

Calming down, is what, and screw it, he lit the cigarette.

Brief light, not that he could really see it, unable to tilt his head. It took a while to get the cigarette to his mouth, and it involved a lot of flexing of his lips to pry their way towards a hand that couldn't get close enough, but eventually, it came. The smoke. He breathed it all in, held it until his lungs burned like his first time smoking, and let it billow out of his mouth with the force of his declaration: here I am.

He felt the smoke bloom above his face, sting his eyes. He tried not to cough – if the cigarette fell out he might not get it back again. He wished he could see. At least know if his declaration was rising, up and out, making known his desperate signal.

Not that he would stop if it didn't.

Inhale.

If he must die, then let it be by this one deadly habit.

Exhale.

I'm here. Can you see me? Please find me. Anyone.


End file.
